


Chaos and Eternal Night

by Ritequette



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Canon Divergence, Everybody Dies, Multi, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 16:09:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6246706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ritequette/pseuds/Ritequette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An experiment involving Miranda's Time Record goes awry, trapping Allen in an apparently unbreakable time loop only he is aware of...</p><p>...on the day that seven Level 4s attack the Order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1st Iteration

**Author's Note:**

> This turned out a lot more introspective than I intended... Oh, well.

 

_The rain should have tipped me off._

Allen realizes this in hindsight.

But the first iteration, his mind’s not on the Holy War, not on the akuma, not on the Earl and the Noah lying in wait so far away (yet close enough to crush them all at a moment’s notice). His mind’s not on his friends, all of them healing, _scarring_ , from their battle with the Level 4 in the old HQ, the _ruined_ HQ. His mind’s not on the flurry of activity in this “new” building either, with its too clean halls and unfamiliar shadows and its windows that reflect too much for Allen’s comfort.

No, Allen’s mind is not on anything it _should_ be on—not even the creeping, crawling shadow of the 14 th in his every mirror image.

His mind’s on his _idiot_ Master, on Cross Marian, on the broken glass and the bloodied frame and Judgment, left abandoned on the floor. His mind’s on Timcampy’s frantic race to Master’s room, a race that ended with Allen in the midst of Komui and Leverrier and a blank, bloody space where Cross Marian should have been.

One minute, Cross Marian was telling him he was the 14th Noah—the next, his Master was a phantom, assumed dead. Killed by an unknown agent that could still very well be walking the halls of the supposedly new and improved Order HQ. And Allen has no clues to this assassin’s identity—not _one_ —and even if he did, the odds that Leverrier (or Link, the man’s first line of defense) would let _him_ pursue an investigation…

The situation is slowing driving Allen mad. He feels trapped in this strange, new space, his every move scrutinized by Link, by Leverrier, by the Crows that often haunt the corners. He wants nothing more than to get out of this place, away from the shiny, polished floors and the rooms that smells like chemical cleaner—he misses the old building sometimes, with its musty closets and scuffed tiles and memories of a better time.

God, what Allen wouldn’t give right now to go on a _mission_. Any mission.

Komui’s promised him a new Innocence will show its face sooner or later, promised to put Allen _on_ that retrieval mission, regardless of Leverrier’s opinions. And Allen didn’t even have to plead to get that promise. In fact, he didn’t have to say a word. Komui knows what he needs. The man always knows—he’s a hell of a lot more observant than he lets on.

Although Allen is sure he didn’t do a particularly good job hiding his feelings that night in Master’s room; his _needs_ were probably written all over his face.

Even so—the new mission can’t come soon enough. Not for Allen. Not when he’s standing here, in the wee hours of the morning, watching a downpour through an open window in a deserted corridor, listening to nothing but the sounds of heavy drops on hard stone and the screaming pressure of his own fears inside his head.

No, from this point on, Allen knows, no mission will come soon enough. They won’t come frequently enough either. Nothing will ever be _quite_ enough to make Allen forget his troubles, to let him focus on his one goal in life, to keep walking forward—not while the world itself seems to be trying to drag him backward.

Thunder rumbles across the sky, and Allen starts, backing away from the window. He shakes his head, pulls himself out of his daze, and takes one last, long look at the sprawling grounds of the new HQ, now thoroughly doused and partially flooded by a downpour that won’t seem to end.

When Allen finally pulls his gaze from the gloomy landscape, he turns on his toes and ambles off aimlessly down the hall. He pointedly refuses to look at any of the closed windows, the ones with the overly reflective glass panes; in fact, he turns his head just so, to cut his peripheral vision off, preventing him from catching even a hint of what he knows will be in his reflection. He sees _it_ often enough.

Sometimes, he needs a break from his fate, same as anybody else.

He sighs loudly, his breath echoing off the vaulted ceilings until it fades away in the distance. This hall and its adjoining rooms are completely empty, one of the sections of the expansive building not yet “colonized” by the Order’s staff. (They don’t have enough members now, to fill such a large space so quickly. They lost too many in Lulu Bell’s assault. Far too many. It’ll be a while before they’ve grown enough to fill the same space they used to.)

As such, Allen hasn’t seen a soul since Link left him alone (a blessing in itself) to go deliver a mountain of morning reports to his shifty-eyed boss. “I’ll be done in half an hour, Walker. Meet me in the cafeteria,” Link had said, back straight, shoulders stiff, lips pulled into a thin frown, before he marched off like he was going to war instead of a half hour talk with his own superior.

Then again, Allen has no clue what delivering reports to Leverrier is like—nor does he care to find out.

All he cares about is his brief window of freedom before Link glues himself to Allen’s shadow again.

A window that’s coming to an end shortly, judging by the booming bells ringing from a distant tower somewhere in the building.

Seven o’clock. He needs to be in the cafeteria in five minutes.

Allen does the buttons on his uniform coat, adjusts his gloves, and sighs one more time before turning back the way he came, aiming for the cafeteria. He carefully mapped his entire walk from his new quarters—that is, he used a piece of chalk he snagged from Komui’s office to mark the pillars and walls, to keep track of where he was going—to make sure he didn’t embarrass himself by getting lost. Again. So he follows these marks, small, white crosses on the dark stone, through the twists and turns of the empty wing, until he reaches more familiar territory: the wider main corridor that leads to the communal areas of the building. Like the cafeteria.

Allen never forgets where the cafeteria is. His brain is at least smart enough not to let him starve to death.

He snorts at that thought, a chuckle building in his throat at the image of himself crawling on his hands and knees, moaning for food, as he’s lost in the…

He turns the last corner back to civilization, and the laughter dies in his throat.

_I should be used to this by now…_ He thinks that every time. Every day. Every morning.

But, truth be told, Allen doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the way that people _swerve_ out of his path the moment they glimpse him now. How they form a bubble around him, like he exudes some kind of miasma. How they glance over their shoulders at him after they pass by, like they’re worried he’ll stab them in the back. How they whisper in a way that isn’t supposed to quiet.

Oh sure, Allen _pretends_ he doesn’t notice. He’s damn good at pretending he’s oblivious to behavior like this—he’s spent his whole life being a freak, so _that_ comes with the territory, second nature, the straight-face, unaffected mask.

But the way the Order treats him now, especially the Finders and Scientists, the way they tiptoe around him, muttering prayers, like they think he’ll go off at a moment’s notice…it hurts in a way it hasn’t hurt since Allen was very, very small. Since before he even met Mana. Since he was _Red._

It hurts because, at one point, Allen got the impression he was a freak among an army of freaks—because let’s face it, the Order is a _weird_ bunch, a band of oddities and strange personalities at every level. He got the impression he’d finally come _home_ , to the place where no one could point a finger at him and call him _weird_ without being hypocritical.

It hurts because Allen is now aware that there’s a level of freak even the Order is afraid of.

That level is _Noah_ , and Allen now qualifies.

And the only thing between him and the pitchforks and torches is the fact that he still _appears_ to be the same Allen Walker he was before Leverrier’s very public announcement that he was a danger to them all. So…

Allen shoves his hands in his pockets, throws up his brightest smile, and makes his way down the main hall toward the cafeteria. He waves at the people he knows, says good morning a few times, and nods to anyone he recognizes but whose name eludes him. Most of them reply in kind—about half of them hesitate first—and a few of them even dare to ask him how he’s doing this fine, rainy morning. He throws out his standard answers in his standard happy, happy tone.

The mood in the hall palpably changes in response to his _normal_ behavior—the word must go through the crowd that Allen hasn’t snapped. That they have at least one more day before he turns into a raging, homicidal maniac and—

Allen runs face first into someone’s chest. He rebounds a few steps, yelping, and the person he ran into promptly takes a tumble, hands over her head even though she lands on her butt. Allen shakes his stupor away, annoyed with himself— _I need to stop letting my thoughts distract me_ —and bends down, offering the person a hand.

And that’s when he realizes who it is.

Miranda.

After realizing she hasn’t fallen on her head and cracked her skull, Miranda lowers her hands and glances up. “Oh! Allen! I’m so, so sorry. I was trying to read these instructions, and I wasn’t paying attention, and…”

Allen holds up his hand and waves off Miranda’s apology. “Nah. It was my fault. I was thinking so hard about my breakfast order, I wasn’t even watching where I was going.” He offers the hand to her again. “You all right?”

“Oh.” Miranda pats her arms and legs like she’s checking for injuries. “I think so. Just bruised my confidence again, I think.”

_What confidence?_ Allen almost mutters to himself. Then he mentally smacks himself upside the head. Because that’s not a fair comment to make about Miranda anymore. Neurotic she may be, but she’s just as courageous and bold as the rest of them. The depressed Miranda with the grandfather clock, caught in her own time loop—that woman has been replaced by an Exorcist. And a damn good one.

(He’s heard the story from Lenalee and Lavi—Miranda keeping that ship together, keeping _people_ together, for days on end.)

Miranda takes his hand, and Allen helps her up. He notices the bundle of papers in her free hand, now crumpled from her fall. “What’re you up to today?” he asks. “Got a new assignment from Komui?”

“Oh, this?” She gestures to the paper. “Nothing official. Nothing like that. Nothing big, of course. The Science Division is restarting all their experiments, that’s all. And they asked me to help them test out some theories, regarding time distortions or something. They think my Innocence will be useful, since it’s the Time Record, you know? So, I’m just on my way there now, for some preliminary stuff, and I was just reading up on the experiment when I ran into you. So…”

“Ah, I understand.” Allen releases her hand. “Sounds interesting. Beats unpacking boxes at least, right?”

Miranda giggles. “Well, I can only hope…”

Allen steps out of her path and motions for her to pass by. “Don’t let those guys go overboard now, Miranda. You know how they get!”

“Oh, yes! I know.” Miranda peeks back over her shoulder at him and flashes him a nervous smile as she skitters off toward the Science Division. “I’ll try my best.”

Allen gives her a brief wave, and his own laughter finally emerges from his chest as a quiet snicker. _At least some things haven’t changed,_ he thinks.

He regrets that thought not five minutes later.

When he reaches the doors to the cafeteria. When he pushes one of those doors open. When he steps inside and spots Link, stern faced, waiting for him at the end of the order line, the words _You’re late_ on the tip of the man’s tongue. When he notices Kanda in the corner, almost finished with his breakfast, and Lenalee, tray in hand, who’s about to sit down across from the brooding samurai. When he catches Lavi a few seats away, telling Krory some story that involves exaggerated hand gestures. When he pretends not to notice how half the room quiets the second they realize who just walked in.

When he lets the heavy door go, lets it close with a soft thud…

…and when, three seconds, four steps later, an Ark Gate forms before that door.

And out of oblivion emerge seven Level 4 akuma.


	2. 2nd Iteration

Allen stumbles backward and smacks his head against the wall. So hard that white spots dance before his eyes. So hard his ears ring for half a minute, drowning out the sound of the choked scream lodged somewhere in his throat. So hard he slides slowly to the floor, back against the cold wall, one hand outstretched in the air, the other clutching the fabric over his chest.

An echo of pain resonates through his ribs, but he feels no blood gushing out. He feels no hole in chest, no broken ribs jutting out through torn flesh. He feels a heartbeat, rapid, panicked, instead of an empty, gaping wound. And for a moment, a shriek of terror still dying on his tongue, Allen wonders if he died, that fast, if he’s been dropped into some afterlife that happens to look exactly like the Order.

Because he’s sure, so, so certain…that a Level 4 just ran a hand straight through his chest and out his back. He saw it happen, in the blink of an eye, yet still, somehow, in slow motion. He saw the flash of the strange, metallic hand, the childlike fingers all extended, strike at him. He _felt_ a pressure in his chest like nothing he’d ever felt before, not even when Tyki Mikk had a Tease eat a hole in his heart.

Allen felt himself die, he’s sure of it.

An akuma’s hand just tore through his heart and killed him instantly. He didn’t even have time to activate Crown Clown before…before his life was snuffed out like the flame on a match.

He had _died._

So how could he possibly be sitting against a wall in some hallway in the Order?

It’s not until his vision finally clears that he begins to understand, just barely. The white spots fade, and the world around him resolves into clearer shapes, and he realizes where he is. The same open window. The same rainstorm raging outside. The same quiet, empty corridor devoid of people. He’s in the same place he’d been just minutes ago…right before the Level 4s appeared.

But how had he gotten here? He couldn’t teleport. And…

Allen’s clenched hand relinquishes its grip on his chest, and he examines his new uniform coat—his now _unbuttoned_ uniform coat…the one he’d buttoned as he made his way to the cafeteria.

There is no damage to that coat. There is no wound. He’s not injured.

It’s like the attack in the cafeteria never happened at all. Like he imagined the whole thing.

Has he finally gone crazy? Is that the case?

Or has the attack just not happened _yet_? Did he somehow have a frighteningly realistic premonition? Is precognition a power of the Noah slowly waking up inside his head?

Or…

Allen peers up at the window to the left of the open pane. One of the many reflective windows that reveals the Noah’s shadow lurking behind his shoulder. The shadow is still there, hanging over him like a dark cloud. But something is different. Very different.

The 14th is no longer smiling.

Bracing himself against the wall, Allen forces himself to his feet. He’s shaking in a way he hasn’t in years—because he’s grown so used to fighting akuma in life or death scenarios, but he’s not used to losing and then waking up again missing a mortal injury. No, Allen’s injuries never vanish in the blink of an eye (not like Kanda’s). They remain. So much so that Crown Clown has to step in on occasion, just to keep him breathing.

Allen takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing pulse, and then pushes away from the wall. He moves closer to the closed window, examining the shadow of the 14th. Its nearly featureless expression, nothing but those empty eyes and the too-wide mouth, is warped in a way Allen has never seen before. It almost looks…not angry. Not sad.

Worried? The Noah is _worried_?

About what? About the akuma attack that didn’t happen? About the attack that _did_ happen and then magically undid itself, sending Allen back to the time just before…

In the distance, heavy bells ring out, signaling the time. Seven o’clock.

Something dark with spindly legs creeps up Allen’s spine, and he shudders, his mouth suddenly dry. _There are three distinct possibilities,_ he thinks. _One, I’ve finally gone insane and just vividly hallucinated an attack on the Order. Two, I somehow glimpsed the immediate future, and everyone in the cafeteria is about to get slaughtered by akuma. Or three, I’ve actually already lived the grisly future, and I’ve somehow gone back in time to the minutes before that future will come to pass._

For once in his life, Allen actually hopes that he is crazy. He hopes that the 14th has invaded his mind and twisted it hard enough to give him waking nightmares. But Allen’s hopes and dreams only ever come to pass when he _desperately_ asks Crown Clown for something, and there’s nothing his Innocence can _do_ in this scenario. Nothing it can do to wipe the 14 th’s increasingly concerned expression off the shadow’s face.

No, Allen hasn’t lost his mind. (Not yet.)

Which means he has less than ten minutes to prevent what will be a massacre. _Another_ massacre. So soon after Lulu Bell’s assault that nearly cost the Order everything, and… _I have to warn them. I have to run and warn them all and get them out of the cafeteria before that Gate opens._

Premonition or time travel. Strange psychic powers or an impossible time-bending phenomenon.

The truth behind his experience of the future doesn’t matter now. Not when so many lives are on the line.

Not when Lenalee and Kanda and Lavi and Krory and even Link…every single one of them is in the cafeteria right now, with no idea what hell is about to descend upon them.

Allen glances up at the 14th’s agitated shadow one last time, its frown more pronounced, its blank eyes wavering, its entire form trembling—like it wants to tell him something but can’t speak. Like it wants to _help_ him. (And if that isn’t the scariest possibility of all, then…)

“Crown Clown,” Allen whispers under his breath, and a second later, the white cloak envelops him. Warm. Comforting. Battle ready. He flexes the claws of his left hand, feels the cool metal mask against his flushed, sweaty face. Then he turns to face the hall, face the path he took only minutes ago, ready to repeat it like a terrible play at grasping the ever-fleeting sense of déjà vu.

His gaze lands on the small white cross he marked with his stolen chalk, and for once he thanks Komui for keeping his office so damn messy.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, rattling the windowpanes.

And Allen Walker races off to war.


	3. 2nd Iteration Redux

_Chaos._

The only word Allen knows that even comes close to describing what happens after he blows into the cafeteria, Crown Clown billowing in his wake, and screams, at the top of his lungs, so high his voice cracks: “Everybody out! We’re under attack!”

There’s a moment of complete and utter silence, during which everyone in the cafeteria, his friends and personal stalker included, stare at him in confusion, in disbelief. And he understands. That he looks insane. Dashing through the hallways with his Innocence activated and no active threat in sight. Barreling into the cafeteria, of all places, as if their enemies are bent are stealing Jerry’s best recipes instead of taking their lives.

If Allen was in anyone else’s position right now, he’d think the screaming exorcist was a lunatic too.

So he doesn’t blame Kanda for his scowl, or Lenalee for her frown, or Lavi for the lopsided expression begging an answer to a dozen Bookman-esque questions. He doesn’t blame the Finders and Scientists for the shocked, nervous looks. And he doesn’t blame Link for his standard glare that states, evenly and calmly, _I need to report this suspicious behavior_.

He doesn’t blame them for their lack of understanding.

Therefore, he hopes they don’t blame him for recalling their worst recent nightmares and adding on to his previous declaration: “Level 4s! Run!”

The building, noxious tension in the room snaps in half. And chaos ensues. 

Finders leap up, knocking silverware from the tables, and bump into each other, hard enough to bruise, as they flee. Scientists, reliving horrific flashbacks, scurry for the nearest exits, half crawling, half sprinting, most of them already in tears by the time they reach the doors. The cafeteria staff hurry toward the kitchen exits, Jerry holding the door as he ushers his team out, ensuring they all make it to safety. He knows what happened to the Science Division. He doesn’t want his people to be _next_.

Finally, as the cafeteria clears, and with seconds left on the clock before…

Every exorcist in the room rises, readying their weapons—Allen can’t remember the last time he saw an exorcist unarmed. Not since the Ark. Not since Lulu Bell. Not since the Level 4.

Allen whips around and backs away from the main entrance doors, eyes darting every which way to make sure the room is clear of anyone who isn’t armed with an Innocence. And, of course, he spots Link, still lingering where the food line had gathered only a moment ago. He stands by himself now, shoulders stiffer than Allen has ever seen them, and expression more bewildered.

The Inspector opens his mouth and mutters, oddly loud in the now silent room, “Walker, what on earth are you talking about? If we were under attack, there’d be an alarm and—”

With a subtle rumble in in the air, the black Ark Gate bursts into existence.

Allen throws his harshest glare at Link and yells, “Get out of here now!”

Link gapes for half a second, and then vaults over the serving window for the kitchen, ducking somewhere out of sight.

The moment Allen grips his wrist to form the Sword of Exorcism, the first akuma emerges from the Gate. Its warped, cherubic face is already grinning as it pulls free from the rippling portal, its fingers extended, ready to shove its hand through Allen’s chest again. To its left, another silver body emerges, unfurling like it’s in the midst of some unholy birth. To the right, yet another. And another. And another. And another. And another.

Seven.

Seven, when they barely defeated _one_ …

Seven—and God, what if the exorcists gathering behind Allen are only lining up to face a literal firing squad, and…?

A blur zips past Allen just as his sword blinks into being, and it takes Allen a startled instant to realize it’s Kanda, Mugen already drawn and activated, no hesitation whatsoever in his step as he advances. (And why would there be? Kanda didn’t even back down from a Level 4 battle when he had no Innocence to speak of.)

Mugen’s black blade slices through the extended wrist of the first akuma like butter, and it shrieks, high-pitched, so loud it hurts, and reels back from Kanda’s assault. But Kanda doesn’t let it escape. He turns on his toes and launches himself forward, teeth bared, eyes alight, a growl of fury in his throat. “Not again, you little bastards,” Allen catches between Kanda’s lightning-quick swings. “Not this time.”

Kanda has no love for the Order. Allen knows this well. And yet, even the brooding samurai refuses to allow a repeat of the last attack. Even Kanda’s hatred cannot ignore _that_ nightmare.

Allen snaps out his reverie, grips his sword so hard his knuckles crack, and sets his sights on the closest Level 4. Crown Clown envelops his body tightly, and he points his blade at his target. Strips of white wrap around his legs, bracing him as he pushes off the ground, rushing forward, straight at the akuma wearing a befuddled look, like it can’t understand why the cafeteria isn’t full of _easy pickings_ , as it was no doubt promised _._

It shakes its head when Allen is mere steps away and throws him its brightest, wickedest grin. “Exorcist,” it murmurs, “let’s have some fun.”

Allen’s drives his sword into the akuma’s side, but the monster catches the blade with its deformed hands. Its feet hit the floor at an angle, and Allen pushes with all his might, the akuma slowly sliding toward the wall, slowly losing its balance, slowly losing its grip, slowly creeping toward the exorcism that’ll save the warped, tortured soul trapped inside. The one Allen can see now—his left eye activated at some point—hovering behind the akuma, bent and twisted in ways Allen doesn’t have the words to describe.

This time, instead of the vision sending him into a vomiting spell, it fuels his rage, ten fold, and he uses every ounce of power in his right arm, in Crown Clown’s cloak and strips, in his legs and chest and back, still bruised and sore from a fight so much like this far, far too recently, and…

The akuma’s grip slips off the blade, and the sword eats into its chest. Allen forces the akuma back against the wall. It shrieks, and Allen’s ears ring. But he keeps going. Keeps dragging the sword inch by inch into the akuma’s metallic body. Even as it writhes and spits and lashes out at him. Even as one of its arms transforms into a gun to try and blast Allen away with virus-laced bullets. Even as those bullets fire, only to bounce harmlessly off Crown Clown’s cloak.

With a mighty howl, Allen tears the akuma’s body in half, and with a scream on its tongue, it disintegrates, falls to pieces before him, the trapped soul fading away with what could be a thank you but could be an insane mutter all the same.

Allen stares at the bits and pieces as they clank and clatter across the cafeteria floor. The world around him, which faded to muffled shouts and squeals and blasts and gunshots as Allen struggled with the monster, suddenly rebounds in full. Allen whips around to recapture the scene: Krory and Lavi going at one of the 4s together. Kanda taking on two at once, Mugen now split into double blades. Lenalee in her new crystal boots, dancing through the air, over the heads of the remaining two, their fastest bullets not nearly quick enough to catch her—

Allen freezes. And recounts.

Krory and Lavi have one.

Kanda has two.

Lenalee has two.

And Allen just destroyed one.

That makes six _._ But there were _seven._

An alarm goes off, and it takes Allen several seconds to realize it’s not just in his head. It’s the Order’s intruder alarm. Someone set if off because…

There’s a Level 4 missing— _God, where did it go?_

Allen scours every inch of the room, searching for the remaining akuma, but it’s nowhere to be found, nowhere on the ceiling, or the floor, or underneath the tables. And it couldn’t have gone through the main door, blocked by the Gate. So it must have either gone through one of the smaller doors—but they’re all still closed—or… 

The kitchen serving window. Where Link had…

Allen leaps and bounds across the cafeteria, crisscrossing through the other battles in full swing. His friends can handle the akuma, he knows, at least long enough for reinforcements to arrive. They’re exorcists, and they’ve been through hell already, all of them dragged through a trial by fire—Noah’s Ark. He trusts them, even if they don’t trust him anymore, or at least not as much as they used to (despite their attempts to deny it). Allen trusts them to live on. 

And so he leaps across the serving window, into the kitchen, and races to the partially open exit door. Because exorcists are hardy, at the end of the day, battle worn and always battle ready, no matter how tired their souls. But Finders and Scientists and cooks and secretaries and all the other people who keep the Order running? They weren’t ready last time. And they won’t be ready this time either.

Nor for the cherubic monstrosity creeping through the halls toward them.

He kicks the exit door wide open, exposing a dimly lit corridor that loops back around to the main communal areas. He barrels out onto the cold, sturdy stone, his footsteps echoing in the eerie silence in between the wails of the alarm. He looks left and sees nothing but empty hallway. He looks right and sees nothing but empty hallway. His instincts tell him to look up, but there’s nothing crawling across the ceiling either. And there are no broken windows. And there are no bloody trails. And there’s no indication whatsoever as to where the missing akuma went…

But that doesn’t make any sense, because how could it move so fast that it reached the end of the long hallway…unless…

Unless it never left the kitchen at all.

Allen whips around in the nick of time and blocks the vicious blow from the Level 4’s tiny, strangely jointed handed. But he loses his balance, boots skidding backward, and ends up in the same painful position he pushed the other akuma into, back against the wall. Right before he _killed_ it. 

The Level 4 grips Allen’s sword and tries to rip it from his grasp, a wild giggle building in its throat. It shrieks out in its sing-song voice, “Got you, exorcist! Got you, exorcist! Now you’re going to die!”

Just as Allen’s right hand begins to slip from the hilt, he calls out, “Clown Belt.” White strips whirl through the air, wrap tightly around the akuma’s body, and wrench it backward, away from the blade of the sword, its fingertips just out of reach. The akuma spits and curses at Allen, its eyes manic and infuriated. But Allen refuses to give it a chance to counterattack again. He reasserts his grip on his sword, lifts it high in the air, and swings in a straight line down at the akuma’s metallic skull.

A quarter of a second before the blade cleaves the Level 4 in two, the akuma stares straight into Allen’s eyes…and smiles. 

Allen stops the blade an inch from the akuma’s skull. Because it’s not right. They laugh and laugh and laugh as long as they’re causing carnage, but as soon as they lose, they always—the akuma always get consumed by rage, so why…? It can only mean…

“What,” he growls out, “are you smiling about? You’re about to be destroyed.”

Its smile grows wider, and it face bends closer to Allen. He expects to see a gun pop out of its mouth to blast him away, but instead, the akuma simply speaks. “So are you,” it whispers. “Because we got orders, see? If we’re ‘about to be destroyed,’ as you put it so nicely, exorcist…” It stops to chuckle again. “If we know we’re going to lose, well, we’ve been instructed to make sure we take _everyone else_ down with us.” The smile grows so wide it nearly rips the akuma’s face in half.

The Level 4 leans even closer and says, “Don’t you know, little boy, that we can self-destruct?”

Yes.

Allen does know that. 

Road taught Allen that.

And he learns that lesson all over again. When the cafeteria _explodes_. And takes him and the Level 4, Krory and Lavi, Kanda and Lenalee, and anyone else and everything else in a quarter-mile radius with it.


	4. 5th Iteration

Allen isn’t sure whether he tries the same plan a second time (and a third) because he’s a fool—or because the shock of feeling his organs explode and his flesh burn off carries over into the next reset of the time loop he’s apparently caught in. 

But regardless of the reason, he tries the same idea again, and again, but in the third and fourth runs of the loop, the outcome is the same: he fights the Level 4s with his friends, and the Level 4s self-destruct as soon as they think they’re about to lose the battle.

So the fifth time Allen snaps into existence in the same hallway on the same rainy morning, with mere minutes to spare before the 4s show up to slaughter everyone in sight, Allen takes a moment to rethink his strategy. If he cannot defeat the 4s the usual way, by hacking and slashing at them until they are no more, then he’ll have to come up with some convoluted plot to keep the 4s from self-destructing _and_ keep everyone safe at the same time. 

But, as the seconds tick away, Allen’s muscles tensing up as the attack draws closer and closer, he realizes he cannot—physically can’t—come up with a plan that complex on the spot. He’s never been the most strategic of warriors (he’d admit that to anyone), and for most of his life, he’s been willing and able to dive in head first to fight off any enemy. He can’t be killed by the akuma virus, and Crown Clown has always been reliable to a fault.

But now, it’s not just his own well-being on the line—it’s his friends, and all the Finders, and all the Scientists, and _everyone_ else. If he messes this up…

_…then what?_ he wonders.

And it dawns on him. He already has screwed up, multiple times, and nothing has come of it except the restart of the time loop. If the loop persists and Allen ends up back where he started, regardless of how many times he dies, regardless of how many other people are killed at the hands of the 4s, then…doesn’t that mean…?

Yes.

It means that he _doesn’t_ have to come up with some convoluted plan to win the fight on the spot. He can take his time, learn what the purpose of the attack is, examine the 4s more closely to see what they’re really scheming, underneath the insane giggles and maniacal grins.

If he can figure out exactly why the Noah have sent the 4s here, exactly what their orders are, exactly how they’ve been instructed to move and fight, _then_ he can come up with a clever way to protect the Order.

And maybe, if he plays his cards right—and he always does, because he _cheats_ —then he can use the expertise of others to help him formulate that clever way. 

Allen steps away from the cool stone wall on shaky legs, breath still stuck in his chest, throat still dry and chalky, as if he’s standing in the smoky cloud of an explosion. One that hasn’t happened yet. But likely will in the next few minutes. And therein lies the problem.

_If_ the time loop continues indefinitely—and Allen can’t be sure it will—he’ll have to sacrifice his friends in order to make his smarter play. Lenalee. Krory. Kanda. Lavi. Even Link, as much as the man annoys him, doesn’t deserve to be left unaware and die painfully over and over again. Sure, they won’t _remember_ it (they clearly don’t, he’s learned, after fighting through the loop multiple times), but…God, how can he watch them die and not help? 

And if the loop _doesn’t_ continue forever, if whatever caused it stops functioning, then Allen will have doomed his friends to an end that won’t reset.

Which, of course, means the first step—the _smart_ first step—would be to find out what caused the loop, and whether or not it will continue forever until something is deliberately done to stop it. The smart first step is to avoid the cafeteria altogether, and to leave his friends to die. To head to the Science Division, where the loop probably started, and seek out the source. Which Allen is fairly certain he already knows, given that Miranda was heading straight toward an experiment involving _time_ right before the loop started. 

Yes, that is the smart first step. And now Allen has to make a choice between smart and…? What do you even call the desire to protect your friends at all costs, even if it’s utterly futile and serves no purpose? Master, Allen knows, would call it stupidity. But Allen’s _stupid_ Master isn’t here anymore—all that’s left of him is a few dried blood stains and a broken window—so Allen’s going to call _that_ nothing at all. Nothing but a fact of his life. Nothing but an innate part of his personality.

And Allen is going to directly violate that part of himself. Because, he knows, he _has_ to. 

“Damn it,” he hisses out in the quiet of the hall. “Damn the Earl. Damn the Noah. Damn them all.” He stomps his boot against the hard floor and clenches his fists, then dares to glance at the reflective window. The 14th’s shadow stares back at him, still wearing that worried frown, and Allen lets his eyes glaze over, peer past the shadow, past the glass, out at the rain-soaked day. “You…” he mutters. “You wouldn’t hesitate, would you? You’d let them all die over and over, as long as it allowed you to gain. Isn’t that right?”

The shadow doesn’t respond. At least not in a way Allen can _hear_. (He thinks, briefly, before he squashes the thought, that he _feels_ something tickling the back of his mind.)

“So I guess the question is,” he continues muttering, “do I have what it takes to act like a _Noah_ until I have the power to achieve my real goal?” He lets his head tip forward until his skin brushes the frigid glass. His eyes are an inch from the shadow’s strange, empty sockets, the thing frowning even harder now, and almost…shaking? Not like it’s sad or even angry. No…

Fear. The Noah is shaking in fear. It clearly knows something he doesn’t know—something Allen doesn’t _want_ to know. 

For one, he’s not sure he can afford to know, because it might change his resolve.

And two, because what he doesn’t know may very well be that he can’t change the outcome of this time loop at all. Maybe it’s permanent. Maybe Allen will be stuck here forever, in these few, blood-drenched moments, watching the Order get destroyed again and again and—

Allen slaps his gloved palm against the window and mutters, “Stop looking at me like that, you bastard. I won’t let you change my mind. I’ll find a way to save them all. If it costs my life and yours, I’ll save every damn one of them a hundred thousand times.”

But before he can save everyone, before he can save _anyone…_

_…_ he’ll have to let them die.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, how was that for my first fic in six years?


End file.
